‘Leave me, Alexander. Get yourself to Dunluce.’
I ignored him and went on, the foot of the path in clear sight now. And then I heard the crunch of huge paws on the shingle behind me. Andrew turned, for I could not. ‘They are down. They are sniffing the fallen hound. Oh, good God!’
And now I did turn. One dog remained by its fallen companion, licking and nosing at it, and setting up a piteous howling, but the other was standing to point, its nose in the air and its tail erect, every sinew stretched in readiness. It saw us and it flew. I tried to run faster, but I could scarcely keep my footing. I stumbled once, twice, then felt Andrew drop from my back. He yelled in pain as his foot hit the ground. The beast was on him in seconds, its massive paws pushing him down onto the stones beneath, a demonic roaring coming from its throat. I grasped on the ground for the staff Michael had given me, and set about the beast’s head and haunches with it. This only served to enrage it further, and it whipped its huge jaws round to me, snarling and baring its teeth, without for a moment letting go its hold on Andrew, who was struggling to get his hands up between his face and its jaws. I threw away the stick and launched myself at the animal’s back. Again it whipped round, and I got my arm around its neck and pulled back for all I was worth. Beneath me, Andrew kneed it in the belly, and as it yelped and doubled forward, I wrenched back hard on its neck again. This time I heard a horrible snap, and the dog crumpled motionless from my arms. I pushed the dead weight off Andrew’s body and started to pull him once more to his feet. His clothes were torn and his face was bleeding from where the animal had bitten into his jaw, but he was in a better condition than he might have been.
I did not take him on my back now, and at a slow trudge we reached the bottom of the path soon enough. The one remaining living hound on the beach was following us now, growling softly, but I sensed a wariness in it. Leaving Andrew to lean on the staff a moment, I picked up a rock and hurled it at the animal. It yelped and then slunk quietly away, to lie guard over its dead companions.
At last then there came the sound of voices, in Gaelic, and the glint of a light from further up the path. It was Michael, and behind him another man, in a priest’s robes, and carrying a pallet of some sort. They were with us in minutes.
Michael surveyed Andrew’s face and clothing. ‘The dogs?’ he said.
‘One of them. They will not bother us any more.’
He nodded, and asked nothing else. Carefully, and with surprising ease and skill, they laid Andrew down upon the pallet, and with the older priest taking the lead and the lantern, Michael and I lifted it between us and carried Andrew up the narrow and twisting path from the beach to the rocky outcrop on which the castle stood. In the moonlight, through all the mess of blood and dirt, Andrew smiled at me.
‘You are an Irishman after all. As good as the best of them.’ He closed his eyes and his head lolled to one side, exhaustion and pain freeing him from further consciousness.
FIFTEEN
A Council of Priests
I had never set foot in a Romish church before, but I had never known such relief at entering the house of God as I did on crossing the threshold of the ancient church of St Cuthbert, in the shadows of the castle. The mingled perfume of damp stone and incense caught in my throat and set me to coughing. Burning candles spread circles of light and some blessed warmth around where they stood, in sconces in the walls and in candlesticks of gold on altars at the front and down the side of the small church. There were no pews, but some elaborately carved and sumptuously upholstered oak chairs near the base of the main altar. A brazier burned in the near corner, and we carefully laid Andrew down there.
‘What is this place?’
The older priest took down his hood. He was tall, slightly stooping and with an aristocratic bearing. ‘Father Fintan MacQuillan,’ he said. ‘You are in the church of St Cuthbert, anciently St Murgan’s. You may take rest and sanctuary here for the night, until help can be brought to you in the morning.’
There was a comfort in hearing the old, old names. Despite the incense, and the golden candlesticks, and the ornate carvings, I felt I could rest easy a while in this place.
‘Thank you. My friend is much in need of rest.’
‘His wounds must be cleaned also. We can do something for him tonight, but for the rest, he will have to wait until you get to Bonamargy.’
I looked at Michael. ‘Why are we going to Bonamargy?’
‘Father Stephen will explain. Fintan has sent to Bushmills for him, he will be here before dawn. Now, Fintan,’ he said, turning to the old priest, ‘have you dry robes for us?’
Within the half-hour, while Fintan attended to Andrew, Michael and I had stripped and washed every inch of ourselves in freezing-cold water from the chapel well, and before getting into the coarse grey robes the priest had found for us I had been persuaded to rub myself with pungent ointments from a box brought from the priest’s own house.
‘What are these for?’ I asked, with less grace than I should have done. After my grandmother’s nocturnal attempt to baptise me into her faith, I had little trust in priests and their ointments.
‘They may do something to disguise your scent,’ Fintan replied. ‘Who knows, with their aid, and my old robes, you may throw them off yet.’
I felt something sink in my stomach. ‘The hounds. They are still after us.’
‘And will not give up,’ said Michael, ‘until they lose your trail.’
‘That is why you have been brought into the church,’ said Fintan, ‘rather than to my own house.’
‘Will they respect the sanctuary?’
‘The dogs will respect nothing,’ said Michael, ‘but the huntsmen will not dare trespass on the sanctuary beneath MacDonnell’s very walls. The town of Coleraine will take great care not to offend the Earl of Antrim.’
Andrew had woken while his wounds were being cleaned and dressed. He managed to sit up a little, and take some broth. I ate hungrily everything that was offered me. Though I had dried myself thoroughly and was now in clean clothes – the priest‘s robe and thick woollen hose – I felt the cold and damp still to the depth of my bones. The stars tonight were much as they had been on my last night in Aberdeen as I’d walked home from William Cargill’s house, promising myself that the next day I would secure my wife and set out on a mission to call others to the ministry of the Kirk. How then had that man come to be here, dressed in a priest’s robes, with holy oils rubbed into his skin, a fugitive fleeing a wolf-hunt? The trappings and tentacles of the world my mother had known before she had ever known me were closing in on me, and I prayed God for the strength and the faith to withstand them. In the place I now found myself, it seemed the borders between the spiritual and physical worlds were blurring, eliding. I tried to pull myself back to the world of the material, to what I could understand. My eye lighted upon Michael, who had taken up a position by a southwest window and was peering into the night for signs of our pursuers.
‘Why did you come to Coleraine? Why were you looking for me?’
He did not turn away from the window. ‘It was not to give you up to the Blackstones, you must believe that.’ After all that had just passed, I could not but believe him, yet I knew there was more. He breathed deep. ‘I came to warn you that Edward and Henry Blackstone were on their way back from Carrickfergus. And to tell you …’